


Pink Drawing Room

by Wallissa



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Clark Kent is a Sweetheart, Developing Relationship, Feral Bruce Wayne, Fluff, M/M, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22762516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa
Summary: Bruce doesn't ask Clark out for a date on Valentine's Day, but Bruciedoessend the Daily Planet an interview request for one "Clarck Kent". Clark is more than happy to go out of his way to spend the day doing hard and difficult reporter's work at the Wayne Mansion.(A mix of honey-sticky figs, warm silk and the scent of roses)(Read the notes for a few explanatory words regarding Feral Bruce Wayne)
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 14
Kudos: 203
Collections: DC Universe





	Pink Drawing Room

**Author's Note:**

> A little introduction regarding Feral Bruce Wayne: 
> 
> Short version: When RobPat was introduced as the new Batman, I went off the rails.
> 
> Long Version: I really love the concept of Batman with the chaotic RobPat energy. He's a bit weird, he's a tad socially awkward, he's fiercely romantic and not all that good at expressing it. Remember how Rob promised that his Batman would be "crazy and perverse"? I remember.  
> After indulging myself in a few Feral Bruce posts on my [writing tumblr](http://typinggently.tumblr.com/), I came to the conclusion to write an actual story with feral, caffeinated, acrobatic Bruce and dummy thicc, sunshine Clark. However, Valentine's Day came earlier and I wanted to write a tiny something for them, because I love them so. So here it is.
> 
> A longer piece will follow at some point, and in the meantime, let's have them celebrate Valentine's Day!

By now, Clark has a somewhat close understanding to what Bruce Wayne’s mornings look like. His very balanced morning routine is, as Clark suspects, inspired in equal parts by Marie Antoinette and Patrick Bateman: Somewhere between 8 and 11:30, depending on the night before, he will get up. Then he proceeds to take his shower, do his work out and a skincare routine that frankly overwhelms Clark time and time again. And finally, he wraps himself up in a cosy bathrobe to read magazines and tend to the Brucie Twitter account. 

It’s very peaceful to watch him and Clark would love to stop by more often. (Especially for the work out part – there’s something to be said about the sunlight catching in the golden flutter of Bruce’s lashes and his part fashionable, part messy stubble as he tilts his head back to sink into his stretches. But Clark’s a gentleman, so he’s not saying it.)

Not that he has much of a choice most days, considering his day starts a few hours earlier and by the time Bruce is doing his half splits, Clark’s already at his desk, proof-reading articles. Usually, that is.

-

However, in the last week of January, Madeleine had dropped an opened envelope on Clark’s desk. “You know who’s been requested for a Wayne Interview?”

“No?”, he’d said innocently. “You? Congratulations.”

“No, _you_.” She’d poked his shoulder and he’d had to wince a little and roll with the movement. 

“Me? Are you sure?”

“Trust me, I’d be more than happy to read it as a personal invitation if your name wasn’t in the damn letter. I mean – Have you even met the guy?”

She’d been puffing her chest up a little in another display of put-on anger and Clark had picked up the letter. It’d been some kind of standardised text with a blank for the name of the requested interviewer, which is just about the rudest thing Clark can imagine, and into the blank, Bruce had written “Clarck Kent” in that Brucie-looped font. “Well, I mean, he misspelled my name.”

“He did. Which – I mean, I guess he googled “Daily Planet Reporter” and you came up, but how did he manage to misspell Clark?” Madeleine had rounded the table and leaned over his shoulder to frown at the letter with him. “Also – did you notice the date? I called his secretary to confirm it but apparently it wasn’t a typo.”

So Clark had checked the date.

-

And that’s how, in short, he’s at Wayne Manor at 10:30 on Friday, 14th of February.  
“Alfred, hi! Good morning!” He might be a little excited. He also might be wearing dark jeans and a soft flannel shirt that is too casual for work and too tight for any kind of farm work.  
“Mister Kent. Please, do come in, I’ll show you to the drawing room.” Alfred looks as polite and refined as ever, which is everything Clark expected. 

What he didn’t expect, however, is to be led through the labyrinth of rooms downstairs. At this point, he’s proud to say that he can find his way to (1) the Cave, (2) the study and (3) Bruce’s bedroom. But he hasn’t spent much time downstairs, so he clutches his messenger bag and follows Alfred. “The drawing room?”

“There are two drawing rooms, in fact, but you’re expected in the one in the east wing.”

That doesn’t tell Clark much, except that the mansion has a lot of most likely unnecessary rooms. But he already knew that, so he smiles, nods, and follows Alfred through the hallways. When they pass the same painting twice, he glances over at his guide.

Without turning his head to look at him, Alfred answers his unspoken question. “You’re perfectly on time. Which is very polite and proper of you, of course, but I feel that on occasions such as these, a slight delay can be very fashionable.” 

“Oh”, Clark says, and blushes a little. He hadn’t considered that. But so far, Bruce has never been anything but perfectly on time, so the long way seems a little unnecessary, in Clark’s opinion.

When they round the next corner, they catch sight of Bruce while he’s slipping out of one of the doors lining the corridor, looking like he’s about to make a run for it. When he sees them, he freezes, hand still on the doorknob. His hair looks particularly messy and his eyes are bright and wild. He looks like a particularly handsome startled ferret. He’s also freshly-shaven and wearing a soft-looking silk shirt with a rumpled collar, cuffs unbuttoned.

“Master Wayne,” Alfred says, tone cool and patient. “Clark Kent is here for your interview.”

Bruce straightens a little. “Thank you. I’ll show him in myself.”

Alfred nods, then the tiniest hint of a smile slips into the corner of his mouth. “Have fun.”

Here, Bruce frowns deeply. “Thank you. Mister Kent.” He steps towards the room, the door already halfway open, but then seems to remember something and freezes, still as a statue even when Alfred is already out of sight.

Clark tries a little smile, tentatively stepping closer. “I didn’t expect to find you this chipper this early.”

At that, Bruce flicks his eyes up to meet his eye, then opens the door. “It’s almost eleven, that’s hardly early. Most people get up before seven.”

“Yes, but you’re not most people.” Clark’s smile brightens.

Bruce frowns a little, looking soft and handsome in his silk shirt. Instead of answering, he holds the door open for Clark, who steps into the drawing room.

The walls are painted a very soft pink and the honey-warm morning light seeps into the room through tall windows overlooking the garden. There’s a window seat and a plush-pink sofa, wine-red carpets. A few tables and glass-front cabinets, glass glowing with the golden sun. 

It would be a very beautiful, very romantic sight as is. However, on top of that every flat surface is crowded with glass vases overflowing with pink roses, turning the room into a golden-pink rococo dream. Clark takes a step, breathing in the powdery-sweet scent is wafting through the room before turning to look at Bruce who’s still hovering by the door. “Did you do this?”

“The flowers?” Bruce looks around as if he has no idea what Clark is referring to and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. “Yes.”

Clark’s heart flutters at that, but his fingertips twitch as he takes in Bruce’s dark circles, turned a romantic lilac-blue in the soft light of the room. “Did you sleep at all?”

Bruce sniffs, pokes one of the flowers on the nearby side-table. He’s not wearing socks, Clark realises, and his pale feet sink into the plush red carpet. “I had a nap last night. Here, you can sit down.”

The thought that Bruce went out of his way to re-organise his day for this, that he stayed awake to spend time with Clark in this sun- and rose-flooded room, warms Clark’s heart, but also fills him with a faint trace of bittersweet worry. He nods and walks over to the silk-cool sofa to take a seat. When Bruce sits down next to him, Clark brushes their shoulders together, a smile blooming on his face. The golden-warm kind that’s all for Bruce. “This is all very beautiful, Bruce. Thank you so much for making the time.”

“I have lunch prepared for two. And dinner at seven.” The sofa is angled to catch the late morning light perfectly and Bruce’s lashes are heavy with gold, his cheeks a little pink. “If you’re not busy.”

“No, not at all. I’d love that. And actually –” Clark’s grip tightens on the strap of his messenger bag. “I brought you something.”

Bruce flicks his eyes down, then he looks off to the side, sniffs. “That wasn’t necessary.”

“No, I know. It’s nothing – well, nothing big. I just wanted to, you know. Since you invited me over.” Clark opens the clasps on the bag, watching Bruce’s handsome-sharp profile, the way he frowns.  
Before he can repeat himself, however, Clark pulls out the wax paper-wrapped parcel and extends his hand. “Here.”

Bruce glances at the parcel out of the corner of his eye, then turns his head a little to look at it. When he reaches to take it, his long fingers brush Clark’s. His hand is cool. 

The paper rustles as he fiddles with it, and Clark watches with a little smile as Bruce unwraps the sticky, golden-brown cake. “It’s a fig cake with honey and dates.”

“Figs and dates are among the favourite foods of frugivore bats, alongside mangos and bananas.” Bruce lifts the cake a little to get a closer look. 

“Yeah, I know.” His smile bleeds into his voice and Clark leans just a tad closer, just enough to feel the warmth of Bruce’s arm through his silk shirt. “I did my research.”

Bruce looks at him, then back at the cake. “There’s no room on the tables, I’ll put it on the loveseat.” Before Clark has time to object or suggest an alternative, Bruce is gone and back again, this time sitting down much closer. “The interview.”

Clark nods solemnly and puts his messenger back down to gently kick it underneath the sofa. “Yes. I suggest that we try this new method. It’s very avant-garde, I think that’ll suit your taste.”

Bruce hesitates, then nods. “What do we do?” There’s that focused look in his eyes, his eyes a very bright, clear shade of blue. Clark almost feels bad about ruining it.

Almost.

“Well. We lay down and say nothing at all for two hours. It’s most effective if I wrap my arms around you.” He offers a bright smile.

For a moment, Bruce stays frozen in his place, then he huffs and reaches out to gently take Clark’s glasses off. Clark, fearing he’ll hop off again to carry them over to the window seat, reaches out to wrap one hand around his hip, but Bruce just bends down to put the glasses underneath the sofa. It’s not the best possible place to store them, but Bruce slips his thigh over Clark’s hips and pushes at his shoulders and Clark has more important matters to attend to than his glasses. Highly scientific matters.

Bruce is warm and heavy on his chest and the second Clark puts a palm on his shoulder blade, he melts with a sigh. Up close like this, his scent of cedar and roses and _Bruce_ is warm and familiar in Clark’s nose, and Clark notes that his hair is still a tad damp, free of product. It’s an achingly sweet detail, vulnerable and soft and Clark’s heart flutters with it.

Then, Bruce’s fingertips find Clark’s shoulder, the touch ticklish-light. They follow the way the fabric pulls over Clark’s arm before settling on his biceps, his hand barely able to wrap around the broad expanse of his muscles. There’s a content little purr half-stuck in Bruce’s throat and he nuzzles Clark’s neck, his cheeks soft, mouth hot as he opens it to speak. “No fucking until eight pm.”

Clark’s laughter rumbles deep in his chest and he wraps his arms more tightly around Bruce, palm big and warm on the dip of his spine. The late morning sun drenches the room, pink walls and glittering vases and velvet-pink roses half-molten in gold. A sluggish-sweet, rococo-decadent laziness sweeps over them.

(and when he wakes up a few hours later, Bruce changes his mind about eight pm)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!
> 
> So maybe now you're frowning in my direction all "Where is the perverse part?? This is false advertisement!"  
> As you can probably tell, this was a rather spontaneous event - I got inspired to write a few Valentine's Day themed drabbles on Tuesday, so I had very little time. Otherwise, I would've elaborated more on the things they get up to in the early afternoon, once Bruce wakes up. Maybe I'll elaborate on that in the future :)  
> (On that note - at this point they're already dating, which means Clark can read Bruce a lot better than he would at the beginning. A good half of Bruce's courting phase passes with Clark going mostly "?:)?" - this is another factor that should be elaborated at another point)
> 
> I'm sorry that this is a little late, but I hope you could still enjoy those two idiots having fun. And I hope you had a wonderful 14th Feb, too!
> 
> If you liked the drabble, a heart or even a comment would be very appreciated! :')  
> And if you enjoy this particular intrepretation of Bruce, you can as previously stated find more in the #Feral Bruce Hours tag on my [writing tumblr](http://typinggently.tumblr.com/)! :) 
> 
> Have a lovely day <3


End file.
